Mama, can you hear me?
by BlueeyedSavior
Summary: The death of Victoria Salvatore was witnessed by 2 people; her 4 year old, and husband. It was covered up and blamed on the wrong person. Now, 169 years later, Damons still hiding what really happened that night. If continued past chap. 1 there'll be D/E
1. It all started with a dream

"Mommy?' A small voice called out. The little boy's footsteps were as light as a kittens as he made his way across the boarding house. It was in the early hours of dawn as he crossed the extravagant living area and proceeded through the library. His dark bedraggled hair bounced against the creamy complexion of his forehead. The wide, dark, innocent eyes of the boy scanned the dark hallways, carefully watching the dancing shadows. He jumped at every creak and groan that the ancient wooden floors elicited. He feared that someone was in the shadows; watching.

He was right. There was a man there. He was dressed in white, which contrasted greatly with his night sky hair. He tried to run to the boy and make him stop. He shouldn't see what was about to happen. "Stop! Damon, go back to bed!" He cried out, but his pleas were silent.

The child oftened did this; ran to his mother for comfort. He often had bad dreams and the only one that could calm his fears was her. The child reached his parents' room and placed a small hand on the doorknob.

He was four; just turned four on Christmas morning. He wasn't prepared for what was on the other side of the door. It was something no child should ever have to see. No child should ever be scarred the way he was. It wasn't fair, it'd never be fair. Living in fear for the rest of his life, always wondering if he'll come back to finish him off; the last witness.

_"Please Damon! STOP!"_

"Mommy?" He called out again. "Mommy, I had another night terror!" Nothing but silence answered. His small hand rested on the doorknob and he began to turn it giving one more attempt to contact his mother.

"Momma?" He gently pushed the door open. The infant's hand quickly dropped from the knob as though it had been on fire and let out a blood curdling scream. There on the dark oak floors was his mother, sprawled out in a pool of crimson liquid. Her jet black hair was matted with blood and her whole body was convulsing. She was clenching and unclenching her bruising fingers and her chipped fingernails were jagged and coated in blood. Her nightgown was soaked through red and her normal tan complexion was chalky and pale. She looked like death.

The boy began to shake uncontrollably as he backed from the doorway. His mother's eyes were opened and her hand was reaching out to him. Her mouth was open but only distorted noises left the bloodstained and swollen lips. Though all her attention was fixed on the boy, his was on the dark looming figure behind his mother. The child's eyes resembled a newborn colt's as he watched the attacker raise an unknown object and point it toward his mother. His mother followed the boy's gaze to the man behind her and she began to scream wildly.

The attacker tilted his head and studdied the boy; judging if he was a threat or not. The man stepped from the shadows and grinned evily at the boy. "Son, what are you doing out of bed?" It was his father, coated in his mother's blood. His trousers, coat, and button-down were stained red and his hands were bloody. He licked a finger and laughed. "Come give daddy a hug." And he stepped toward his son.

_"No Damon! GO!"_

"RUN DAMON!" Though his mother yelled this to him, Damon could not remember how to work his legs and the next few moments seemed to slow as he watched his mother's eyes fill with tears, and she called out to him with a shaky breath, "I love y-"

"Shut up you whore!" Guiseppe cut her off and smacked her across the cheek. "Why did I ever marry you? You're nothing but a gutter rat!" He raised his pistol again and held it against her forehead. "Say hello to Satan."

The shots rang out and his mothers life was taken. Damon cried out in a mix of fright and anger and stared at his father.

"Damon, be a good boy and come to your daddy." Guiseppe smiled at Damon. The boy didn't move. "Damon?" Nothing. "You little brat, how dare you disobey me. Do I need to show you why you don't disobey your father?" He reached for the gun which he had previously placed back in the holster and nelt down next to his wife's body.

BANG BANG BANG

Her body shuddered and Damon cried out again.

"Papa, stop."

"Now are you gonna come here?" Damon shook his head. "Well then, I guess you'll just have to learn the same way your whore of a mother did." The crazed man raised the pistol level with his son's head and shot.

Luckily, the boy had jumped out of the way and scrambled from the room. As he ran from that place, he heard his father's psychotic laugh ring out and it sent chills down his spine. A shadow sprang from the room and ran after him.

His small legs were moving at a quick pace and he easily maneuvered the corners of the house he had grown up in. Unluckily for him though, the shadow seemed to be at the same level of ease with the odd and rapid movements and was quickly gaining on the tired boy.

Just as Damon had thought he was going to make it to the front door, he was tripped by the rug in the main hall. His head was throbbing and began to release a large amount of sticky blood. Damon's world was quickly fleeting and he rolled to his back, only to take a sharp breath as he stared into the face of the pursuer. It was a man he knew better than anyone else; it was himself.

The older Damon stared down into his younger self's face and he began to weep. He knew this was a dream; he knew that he could wake up now if he wanted, but he didn't. Damon knelt down and pulled the boy into his arms. Younger Damon was sobbing and clung to his future self for dear life.

"Mommy." He cried, "He hurt her! She's gone!" Little Damon put his face in the crook of the man's neck and drenched his shirt in salty tears. Older Damon attempted to stop his own tears but couldn't help himself and continued to break down.

"I know." He sniffled, "I was there." And the two of them began to cry harder and held eachother tighter. The older Damon had truly been here before, back in 1843 when he had been 4 except, no one had been there to comfort him.

He had been persued through the house and hit his head at the front door only to wake up the next morning in his bed, his wound cleaned. Shortly after he went down the main staircase he was met by the sight of police officers and his father crying. He'd looked up at his son and smiled sinisterly before returning to his part as the grieving widow. They ruled it as a rape and murder conducted by one of the slaves. The boy they convicted was only 14. He was hung in town square.

The two Damons sat there for what seemed like a very long time until the younger of the two jumped up suddenly.

"Stefan! My little brother, he's in his room. I have to go save him!" And with that, the boy pulled from his grasp and sprinted back up the stairs. Damon stood to run after him when he felt the dream shift and his vision blurred at the edges.

He knew he was waking up. He knew he'd dream this again, just like he had almost everynight for the past 169 years. He knew what had really happened that night while no one else did and he regretted never telling anyone about what had changed him, what had shaped him into the cruel and unforgiving man that he was. He'd be forced to carry this secret of what happened that night alone for the rest of eternity. He'd never be completely happy; His father killed him long before he ever died.


	2. The angels of France

I woke up before my eyes opened. I lay in bed for what seemed like hours, trying to retain a little bit of rest before getting up for the day.

_You're not getting anymore sleep, you know that; you've known that for 169 years. _

Sometimes, I hate how right I am.

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, my head in my hands. My cheeks felt raw and I dabbed at my eyes; they were wet. I'd never cried before in my sleep. I hadn't cried since I was 4.

_Put on the mask Damon; just like you've been doing. Be strong._

I crossed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The steam slowly creeped out into the bathroom and soon covered every inch of the space. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes; I loved showers. I stuck my foot in and my mouth turned up a bit at the corners. I knew this wouldn't last long; I could feel the pain slowly creeping its way back in.

Knock Knock Knock

I growled lowly and poked my head out to look at the bedroom door.

"What?" I snapped. The door opened and Stefan looked in.

"I'm going out… are you okay?" Damn that concerned tone of his. Why'd he have to notice every little thing?

"Just peachy, now get the fuck out of my room." His face fell and he simply nodded, sulking away. Fucking Stefan. Him and his fucking Stefanness, always being so fucking Stefan-like, it made my blood boil.

I knew I was overreacting, but frankly, I didn't give a shit.

I went back into the bathroom and made my way to the shower.

_Just let it out Damon. It's okay._

I leaned against the cool tile and let the water run down my face; I didn't even notice the salty tears that mixed their way in.

"Damon are you in here?"

"_Damon are you in here?" I heard the smile in her tone. "You silly little boy, where are you?" My mother called out. _

_I watched her from underneath the bed and suppressed a giggle. She looked silly, crawling around on the floor; looking under everything. I rolled out from underneath the bed silently and crawled toward her, from behind. I leapt from the floor, onto her back. She screamed and then proceeded to break out into laughter. _

"_Damon Angelo Salvatore! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" She pulled me over her back and into her arms, pecking me on the nose with a kiss. "Since you 'missed' your bath, it's time to go to bed Mon fils belle petite." She cooed in her beautiful accent._

"_Momma, why did you leave France?" I asked her. She smiled down at me._

"_Because the angels told me that I was going to have a son, a beautiful baby boy, and that his father wasn't there. They told me that I'd meet him here. You're why I left." _

"_Do you ever want to go back? Doesn't your mama and papa miss you?" I would miss my momma if she left. She was the best momma in the whole world._

"_Why would I leave? The most important thing in the world to me, is right here. You." I accepted her answer with a nod and she began to carry me to my room._

"_Momma?" I whispered so quietly that had I not been inches from her ear, she wouldn't of heard me._

"_Yes angel?"_

"_Can you sing to me about the angels? The one that you learned when you were small?" She smiled and began a simple tune. _

"_Permettez-moi de vous chanter une chanson,il n'y a pas d'aventure ou de romance." She looked down at me and nodded for me to sing along._

"_Permettez-moi de vous chanter sur les anges en volent au-dessus avec des ailes comme une colombe et ont des voix de soleil et de chanter que de l'amour." I smiled softly and closed my eyes, listening to her words. I could feel the simple melody caressing my cheek; lulling me into slumber."Ils guident et nous protègent quand même nous ne pouvons pas." I felt her lower me onto my bed and pull my muddy shoes off. They dropped with a dull "thud."_

"_C'est l'histoire des anges en France." She cooed the last line softly and kissed my cheek, "Good night amour. I love you, my silly little 3 year old."_

_She blew out the candle on my nightstand and closed the door shut. That tune was still in my head so I began to sleepily sing to myself, "Let me sing you a song, it's no adventure or romance." I yawned deeply. "Let me sing to you about the angels in France." I heard my mama and Papa's voices. _

"_You're making him soft Victoria. He's like a little girl!" My papa drawled._

"_There is a difference between sensitive and soft." She argued. "Damon is perfectly fine."_

"_They fly high above with wings like a dove and have voices of sunshine and sing only of love."_

"_No he's not, he should be more like his brother Charles. When he was three, he was out hunting with me everyday. He was tough, but Damon? I can't believe he's my son. He's a disappointment!" _

_Tears stung at my eyes. Charles was my half brother; he was 22 and married, off owning his own land. He was my pa's son from another lady. I heard a smack, someone had just been struck._

"_They guide and protect us when even we can't." I sang softly, my voice quivering._

"_Don't you dare say that about him! Don't speak of my son that way." My mother hissed. _

_I could picture her perfectly; her hand red from smacking my papa, her eyes hard and she'd be standing with her knees bent like she was ready to pounce at any second. _

"_This was the last fight Guiseppe. I'm done with the constant yelling and violence. I'm taking Damon and Stefan away from here; after Christmas. If you try and stop me, I'll show sheriff Forbes the bruises." And just like that, the fight was over. Footsteps disappeared down the hall._

_I sat in bed for a long time after that. I couldn't move, I couldn't breath, I could only cry. "That is the tale of the angels in France." I sobbed out._

"What do you want Elena?" I sighed and pulled a fresh towel around my waist and opened the bathroom door. Water dripped from my hair and onto the floor with tiny 'splats.' I took a deep breath and looked at her.

No matter how many times I saw her, she never got any less beautiful. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, away from her gorgeous face. Her chocolate eyes peered into mine and she smiled a small smile.

Was she done being mad at me for storming out that night at the ball? I didn't even do anything. She was the one who staked me in the heart, metaphorically speaking, when she told me that me loving her was a problem. But how could I not love her? She was perfect.

"I was actually wondering where Stefan is?" And just like that, my life sucked again. I know she saw my eyes harden by the way regret flooded her features. "It was a joke, I'm kidding." She looked down at the floor.

What kind of joke is that? "Well Elena, if that's all you wanted to do, then I'll see you later." I pushed past her and went into my closet to grab some clothes. I pulled them on in seconds and walked back out into my room. She was still here, and nevertheless, sitting on my bed. She doesn't realize how many times I've fantasized this scenario.

"Damon." I continued to walk away. "Damon, Stop." I was at the door now. "Damon, Stefan thinks that I have feelings for you." I froze and let out a bitter laugh.

"And let me guess. You told him 'no Stefan, of course not. I love you and only you. It will always be Stefan.'" I mocked in annoyance. If I put the walls up now, maybe it wouldn't hurt that bad. Maybe they could protect the shell of a heart that I had left.

"I couldn't tell him that. Because I might be in love with you."

And just like that, my walls crumbled.


End file.
